The Rise of Stark
by potterology
Summary: They were Starks and Starks were built for survival. They, like their strongholds, were meant to last. -"So, it's a kingdom for a blacksmith," said Rickon." Futurefic w/book, head canon and Tv series. Continued from photosets on tumblr.
1. Prologue

A/N - So this is a full length multi-fic to accompany my Rise of Stark photoset series on tumblr (potterology-). I got a lot of requests for a full length fic so... I'm acquiescing to the request! And I'm happy to do so! Jsyk, this fic is mixing the book, tv series and head canon. I'm trying not to spoil too much for those who haven;t read the book, so some things will have been deliberately left out. Anyways, here you go and enjoy! :) -Sam x

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They stood, staring, together for the first time in what felt like centuries. Sansa remembered very clearly the last time she had seen Bran, a thousand years ago. He had been sleeping still, his fall fresh, and she hadn't had the heart to kiss him goodbye. She'd squeezed his hand and whispered her love, then escaped before Arya could see her cry. He had been a summer child, only happy when he was as high as the birds or running circles around their mother, Arya by his side (or in front of him, which was so more often than not). Sansa couldn't see any of the Bran she knew in the man who sat sullenly in front of her. He was different, colder; not the curious, excited little brother he had been, but a dark man, with heavy eyes and bad habits; a dark heart pumping anger and fury through his skin.

Then there was her youngest sibling. Rickon was strange as ever, but there was wisdom in his eyes. As wild as he was, all calloused hands and hard voice, he walked softly, carried himself like he was supporting some great burden and his eyes held a happy glint that made him look like something wonderful was about to happen, which only he knew about.

He looked through Sansa, through the steel exterior and into her lion heart. It made her shiver; every secret she had ever had was plunged by his gaze, every depth was fathomed. She might as well have confessed every sin to him, the way he looked at her. He was strong, and wise and wild.

And Arya? She kept her hands tightly to her sides, her face a mask of indifference, so much so that Sansa could have sworn she was as likely to kill them as to kiss them. The woman who stood before her - my sister, Sansa reminded herself - had a countenance that was darker than Bran's, who was more of a curmudgeon than a villain, and the same wild nature as Rickon, but it ran deeper. She spoke with the voice of one who knew her own mind, her accent affected from speaking the Braavosi tongue for so long; moved in such a way that every action seemed premeditated. There was something in her step, in her presence, that set Sansa's teeth on edge. The only other time she remembered feeling similarly was when she was alone with the Hound: Fear; but more than that, affection. Arya was her sister, but if Sansa was a lion heart, Bran a dark heart and Rickon a wild heart, it seemed Arya had no heart at all. There was no love in her eyes, no mirth in her smile and no gentleness in her touch. She simply was and was nothing.

"A blacksmith?" Bran scoffed from his seat at the table. It held a large map of Westeros, each capital and major stronghold marked out in green or black ink. They were in a camp just outside of Winterfell, together as they had been that last day before everything fell to pig shit. Sansa grimaced; even more so when she heard the cold fury in Arya's voice as she spat, "He is not just a blacksmith."

"What's so special about him, then? Is he a king? A lord? Is he even a knight?" Bran said, his lips red from the wine he gulped down. He was angry, Sansa could see. He'd only just bargained a peace between the North and the Landing; Tommen was an easier, less ignorant ruler than his brother or mother had been, and when Bran came back to Winterfell (after separating Theon Greyjoy's head from his shoulders) the first thing that was brokered was a treaty between the two. To be asked now to violate that treaty for a bastard blacksmith was, in his eyes, unconscionable; from whom the request came was of little concern to the Lord of Winterfell.

"He is important," Arya replied lowly. Bran threw his head back and laughed.

"To who?" he said, raising his eyebrows and gesturing around to his siblings. His legs, still useless no matter how many mages and soothsayers he summoned, jostled as he waved a hand towards the mouth of the tent. "To the fathers and sons in the fields? To the brothers on the wall? To the women of the Cragg?"

"To me!" Arya slammed a fist onto the table. The map curled over at one edge where a wooden weight came loose from the force of her protest, covering Winterfell and half the North. Bran was furious and would have been on his feet, sword in hand, had he been able to, "And that isn't enough! You cannot ask me for my people's blood, for their lives and sons, for the sake of your cunt!"

"Enough!" Sansa raised her voice for the first time that night. They were breathing heavily, Arya more so than Bran, but Sansa suspected it was the effort not to murder her little brother that was doing it.

"So it's a kingdom for a blacksmith," Rickon said softly. There was no cruelty in his voice, only reason, and the tension bled from the room almost instantly. Arya looked suddenly tired, and older than Sansa had ever seen her.

Arya sunk into a chair, her eyes on Bran, pleading (as much as Arya could plead), "When you came to Braavos, I protected you. When you left to reclaim Winterfell, I sailed you there on my finest ship, crewed with three hundred of my best men. When Daenarys Targaryen rose from the Red Waste, vying for your head and that Lannister bastard, I put her down and sunk her in the Narrow Sea. I have asked for nothing in return, brother."

"But you are asking now." There was an odd mood settling over the four siblings; Bran and Arya, two powerful rulers in their own right, were speaking as if a treaty or détente was being drawn up, while Sansa and Rickon agreed silently to stay out of it. Sansa would not side with either one alone; the four all seemed to come to the same conclusion: It must be a unanimous decision between the Stark children.

"Yes. I am asking now. Rally the North, sent out riders to the Tully lands and the Eyrie - summon the damned krakens if you must - but please, do not forsake me." Arya slid her hand across the table towards Bran, her gold rings clattering against the wood. Bran stared at her outstretched hand for a few moments, frowning in such distaste that Sansa was sure he was about to refuse, but then it passed and he rested his own hand on top of hers. The corner of his mouth rose into a soft, relenting smile, and he looked kind for the first time since Sansa arrived at Gulltown.

"I'll answer your call, sister. I do not like it, but you are not asking me to like it." Arya flushed gratefully and for an instant she was the little wild girl who used to rub mud in her hair so she didn't have to sew with the Septa. Rickon stood abruptly, a massive grin splitting his face.

"Then I have some work to do," he proclaimed proudly and without another word he strode from the tent, calling for ale and salted pork. Bran laughed loudly at his brother and summoned his squire with his chair. Sansa took the moment to appraise her sister. She did not find relief, as she had been expecting, but a worried prayer whispered into the pendant that hung around Arya's neck. Sansa didn't have time to wonder what it was or why Arya of all people was praying before Rickon came bounding back into the tent with four wildings, each holding two pints of ale in both hands, and a sack of food in between his teeth.

"Let's have a toast, shall we?" he said, nodding to the wildings as they left. He handed them each a pint and one to the squire too, who flushed and hightailed out of the tent. "To us!" He smiled widely again. Sansa smiled.

"To the North!" Bran laughed.

"To House Stark!" Sansa chimed in, turning her gaze to Arya. The dark woman looked up at them, her pendant - a small wooden stag - settled between her breasts.

"To a blacksmith," she said quietly. They all nodded to one another and toasted.


	2. Bran

A/N - Chapter 2! Thanks to everyone who reviewed the prologue chapter! I'm so glad everyone enjoyed it :) Got two more chapters written and they'll be posted soonish! :) x

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_One year earlier..._

Bran remembers very clearly the day he took Theon's head. Arya had sent three hundred extraordinary warriors with him on the fastest ship in her flotilla, with horses that ran faster than Summer at a flat sprint. They landed near Longbow Hall, just off the coast of the Eyrie, and had gained on Winterfell at an alarming speed; they were so fast, in fact, that the ravens Lord Hunter had sent from Longbow to the Bolton's did not arrive until it was too late. It took them less than an hour to rid the castle of the flayed men; he would never get the image of the Braavosi climbing the walls like ants on a crumb out of his head, nor be rid of the immense longing and sadness that welled up in his chest when he thought about it. When he finally sat upon the stone throne as the true, rightful heir of Winterfell, his first order of business was to send soldiers to Deepwood Motte, Torrhens Square, White Harbour and Moat Cailin, where the old stag Stannis still sat, calling for Theon's head.

The thing that returned was not the man Bran remembered: A toothless, limping piteous beggar who could not look him in the eye nor stand with a straight back. Gone was the cocky, smug air of false fealty, replaced by a cowering unrelenting fear of all loud noises and large men. His tongue was scarred and misshapen; it made his words jumble together as he spoke. The flesh of his toes had been stripped, leaving only a stump of dirty bone, and he had only three fingers on either hand. His nose had been broken so many times that it sat comically off centre; one ear was missing.

"Theon?" Bran had asked, not quite believing that this was the boy Robb once called brother. The man had simply ducked his head and whimpered something unintelligible, his head and body bowed to such a degree that he was kissing his knees. An older man in gold armour stepped up from behind where Theon kneeled, hoisted him up from under the arms and dragged him towards Bran, dumping him unceremoniously at the young lord's feet. Bran winced. "Theon Greyjoy?" he said loudly, strongly.

"Y-yes." Theon stuttered from between his hands. There would be no glory, no honour in this next act, only pity and sorrow.

With the air of putting a wounded dog out of its misery, Bran gestured for a sword and Hodor. The aging hulk lumbered up behind Bran and held him at the waist as the young lord gripped the blade with two hands.

"I, Brandon of House Stark the second of his name and Lord of Winterfell, sentence you Theon of House Greyjoy, to death by way of treason," he said. He raised the thick, heavy blade to settle against the neck of the quivering man. Theon did not look up as Bran asked if he had anything he wanted to say, but in a small voice, he whispered, "We do not sow." And in one swift blow, Theon Greyjoy was no more a trouble to the world than Ned Stark. That was little more than three months ago. Bran shivered. Whether it was the night air or the memory that did it, he couldn't be sure.

"We do not sow…" Bran whispered into the night, his breath steaming in front of him as he looked out onto the battlements. He had forgotten how much he loved being up here; when he was younger and still had his legs, he would spend hours - almost full days - up here just staring out into the wolfswood or south towards the Landing, dreaming of one day being a knight or of the Kingsguard.

He imagined himself tall and strong, with a gleaming gold cloak and a direwolf breast pin. It had been summer then, and the days had been so long that he would sometimes wake up and fall asleep all in daylight. He missed the summer dearly. He might have been a Stark but he did not enjoy the cold, not like Rickon did or Robb had. Bran thought himself closer to Sansa in that regard, and perhaps Arya. Idly, he wondered if Jon preferred the winters and if he had seen many. A bit pointless to wonder now, but still he did and couldn't quell the thought.

From his position atop the battlements, just above the Great Keep, he could see into the courtyard and across to the stone steps of the Sept, where a Braavosi watchman was sharing a loaf of bread and goat cheese with the blacksmith's boy. It wasn't particularly late, but it was dark and the beacons had been lit for an hour or so. It was peaceful, quiet, and the air was still in the way Bran liked, as if nothing was wrong and would never go wrong again.

"M'lord?" a voice came from behind Bran and two feminine hands settled on his shoulders. He turned his head to see who had followed him: It was a serving girl from the kitchens, Anne-Marie he thought her name was. She wasn't much younger than him, and had deep red hair that reminded him of Sansa. He forced the wheels of his chair - a monstrous but useful contraption of the Maester's invention - around so he could face her. "There's been a raven. Maester Samwell sent me to fetch you, said it was important." She wrung her hands as Bran nodded, pushing himself towards the Keep.

He found the Maester with little effort as the old crow paced outside of Bran's bedchamber. He started as soon as he saw Bran on the approach, "Lord Stark! My lord, there's been a raven-"

"Yes, the girl said-"

"It's from Casterly Rock. Lord Tyrion is going to withdraw the troops in Riverrun - he's going to release it to Lady Sansa." Samwell bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, smiling as wide as if he'd just been informed Cersei was stepping down and bequeathing the Iron Throne to the North. Bran sighed. It wasn't that he didn't care for Riverrun or his mother's family, but it was the Vale he needed, of which he was sure Tyrion was well aware. The Vale would provide a safer and quicker passage for the Braavosi flotilla; the three ships he had sailed on were enough to alert the entire Fingers of their presence, a thousand would have the Lannisters roaring from coast to coast.

"Well, at least that's The Trident, I suppose. Was that it?" Bran said. He felt exhausted from the conversation and pushing himself through the Keep, so when he hoisted himself onto his bed, he wanted Sam to leave. The Maester bowed, looking deflated that Bran was not as joyous as he to hear the news, and shook his head. "Nothing, my lord, but I will wake you should I hear anything more. Sorry to have disturbed you." He bashfully retreated from the room, leaving Bran alone.

Samwell was a good man, a brother of Jon's Bran remembered, and was an excellent Maester, especially when it came to maps and the old lore. He knew everything there was to know about Brandon the Builder and he would often hold story nights for the younger children in the keep, changing his voice for each character and answering every question. For a moment, Bran wanted to call him back, ask him to tell him a story about the wildlings or the First Men, but then he remembered he was a Lord and Lords do not ask for bedtime stories.

Closing his eyes, he fell asleep slowly and then all at once. He saw Summer and summer, drenched in love and light, but it changed; the hills became sand, the wolves became dragons and his dreams were filled with fire and blood. A white haired woman was sailing towards him, radiant and beautiful, but she was sinking, a dark shadow casting her down, holding her head under the sea. He tried to call out, to stop it or to help, but there was nothing he could do. There was only blood and ice, and Winterfell was burning.

When he awoke the next morning, he found himself sobbing.


	3. Rickon

A/N - I'm updating this now because I won't get a chance for a while. I've written the next chapter, and I have a plan for all the chapters up until about chapter 26. So stick with me! I'm in this for the long haul! :) Reviews or tumblr Q's are always welcome :) and you can follow the photosets (which have little sneak previews for chapters to come) on potterology-/starks :) -Sam x

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Rickon ran, his legs burning and his armour clattering about him. Shaggydog, huge and bloody and bear-like, galloped at his side, slowing down when he got too far ahead of his master. The wind whipped at his face, burning his eyes and lips, freezing the inside of his nose painfully. There was blood everywhere; it slicked his hands, his face, it was even in his boots. Some of it was his own, some of it not. His lungs were on fire. He couldn't draw breath. Shaggydog howled; _me too, Shag, me too. _But Rickon did not slow, not until he came through the wild wood and into the Frostfangs proper. His direwolf, propelled by the sight of the camp up ahead, bolted onwards as Rickon sluggardly made his way.

As important as he knew it was, he couldn't help but hate scouting the woods for crows and ravens, especially when he knew the only reason he was elected for it was because of Shaggydog. Although, he thought, I've done it so many times I'm the closest thing to a damned expert on those woods. Someone else would get it wrong and get themselves killed.

"You took your time!" Osha laughed as he stumbled up to her, collapsing close enough for her to catch him and lay him down in the snow. She laughed again when tried to rub his bloody hands on her face, only to miss and swing wildly at air. "Seven hells, you look like you've had a time of it." Rickon nodded but couldn't catch his breath to speak. Osha pulled him up against a wooden bench, and then shoved a skin of ice water and a half-eaten sandwich into his hands. He smiled at her.

They sat for about ten minutes before he started to speak. "Well, Grumm was right. There's something in those woods, I just don't know what yet. There's-" He paused to shift himself into a sitting position, "-no tracks, there's no blood; not even so much as a piss mark. It's got two legs and two hands that's about as much as I know."

"You think it could be an Other?" Osha asked, her voice low and hushed. Rickon cast a weary glance over her shoulder at the rest of the camp and lowered his voice too.

"I think we should start heading towards the Wall. If nothing else, they'll slow them down." Osha nodded and moved to stand, but Rickon grabbed her hand before she could. "We need to go soon." The wilding woman set her mouth in a grim line, gathered herself up and walked away towards the others that stood behind them. Convincing the wildlings to seek help from the crows would not be an easy task. Damned impossible, Rickon thought. If only I had half the talent for this that Arya did, I'd be a happy man. He sighed, closing his eyes.

Winter is coming, he thought solemnly. The Stark words; old words. He had heard them his entire life when he was younger, from his father and his brothers, from the Maester. Winter was always coming for the Starks. But what words did they have when winter was finally upon them? What does a direwolf do when he is knee deep in snow, a blizzard all around him and no way out in sight? _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ Rickon frowned to himself. Was that how he truly saw himself? A dying loner on the edge of the world? From across the camp he heard Osha's laugh and the sad feeling of loneliness melted away. He wasn't alone, had never been alone a day in his life. She was always there with him; she was his pack, along with Jon and Bran, and his sisters. The lone wolf may die, but Rickon survived. He was a Stark and Starks were built for winter.

He stood, his legs still shaky, and shuffled through the snow towards where Osha was gathering the others. Crab, Grumm and Tolun stood off to one side, arms crossed and scowling, as was the norm. The Drell twins were excitedly rubbing their hands together, shoving one another and playfully jabbing those around them. A few of the others just murmured to themselves, but they all quietened as Rickon approached, stopping next to Osha. He nodded to her and mumbled thanks.

"There's something in those trees," Rickon began, gesturing towards the wild wood, "and from what I can see it's a right bastard and there isn't much to go on besides. I think," he paused, casting a glance at Osha, who shuffled her weight from foot to foot, "that we should go to Castle Black." Immediately there was uproar.

"Pig shit! We don't need them crows!" Grumm shouted. Tolun voiced his agreement loudly and profanely.

"They'll gut us, skin us alive, burn us, just like Mance!" Someone else shouted. "Just like Mance!" Several others seemed to take up the chant too, attracting more and more as it grew. "Mance! Mance! Mance!" Rickon faltered. He had expected resistance, but nothing like this. He tried to speak above the din but it was no use. "Mance! Mance!" Osha stepped in front of him, raised her hands and screamed, "SHUT IT!"

The silence was extraordinary. She nodded for him to continue.

"Look, I know this doesn't appeal to any of you," several grunted, a few voices murmured. "But we don't have much of a choice." _The lone wolf dies_. "We have to stick together and if we stay out here, we'll die. Now, I don't know if it's the Others," another round of shouts and protests, "but I don't feel like finding out. So, you can stay here and die, or come to Castle Black and survive. It's up to you." _The pack survives_.

With some consternation, some protests and a few fights, a consensus came down to a majority 'yes', and the following morning all two hundred of them began the trek south, Rickon leading them, with the winds of winter biting at their every step.

Something strange was in the air and it made him, Rickon, afraid. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear his father whisper that times of fear were the only times a man could be brave; Bran had told him that once, before they separated, after Theon took Winterfell. Rickon had clutched to him, lacing his fingers around his neck, begging him not to leave, but Bran had pried his hands away and whispered that he had to be brave now. Rickon had said he was scared, and Bran told him how not to be. As different as they were - Bran was brash where Rickon was subtle, impulsive where Rickon was patient - Rickon would never forget the kiss his brother pressed into his hair that night, nor the soft words in his ear.

As they left the Frostfangs, Rickon began to breathe a little easier. Despite knowing that the wild wood was ahead and so many unknown dangers, that they were no longer at risk of freezing to death was a great comfort. Well, it makes sleeping easier, he thought. Shaggydog scouted ahead a few miles and then came back with a branch to let them know it was safe to carry on. After the second time, the Drell twins came up on either side of him.

Rom and Rem were rough boys, broad and muscular, with sandy blonde hair and soft cheeks. There was a mischievousness about their matching smiles that made it impossible to dislike them, and their love of raunchy jests made them good company on a long trip, when the fear had crept up on you and all you wanted was a reprieve.

"What d'you suppose the crows'll say?" Rem asked. The two of them looked fiercer and fiercer as the sun set, their sharp features framed in shadow.

"I'm sure the Lord Commander will understand. He might not like it, but I don't suppose he'll refuse us." He chanced a look at Osha, who trudged a few feet back but was still within earshot. She met his eyes, shook her head slightly, and then cast her gaze elsewhere. Not yet, she seemed to say. Don't let them find out before we get there - after we're safe, perhaps, but in the wild they have to trust you. Rickon turned back to Rem. "At the very least he'll board us for a few days, let us camp in no mans land perhaps after that. The Night's Watch are good men." Rem nodded, falling back with Rom, satisfied with the answer.

When they stopped, night truly upon them, Rickon prayed to the gods, old and new, that Jon would not refuse them.


	4. Tommen

A/N - So this is a Tommen chapter! You get to see an insight into how I think the Lannisters end up. JSYK, I'm going on the basis that Tyrion was cleared of charges against him and that Cersei had gone a bit mad recently. The next chapter is Sansa, and boy is it a doozy. Enjoy guys and do leave a review if you liked it :) check out the photosets for snippets of what's to come on potterolgy-/tagged/starks.

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"You're handing over The Trident? I always thought you an idiot, dear brother, but this is borderline offensive!" Cersei raged. Tyrion did not seem the least bit bothered by her fury; in fact, he seemed almost bored with the posturing of the Queen Regent. Tommen thought it a stroke of genius. Handing over the Tully lands, and to Sansa no less - who was, after all, a Lannister - meant that they could offer olive branches without handing over any olives. Riverrun was useless on it's own; it was the Vale that they had to hold.

His uncle had approached him a few days before with the idea of handing the Vale to Jamie and releasing Sansa to Riverrun; Tommen could not deny the futility of holding the Stark woman against her will much longer, so he agreed. His mother did not seem to hold the same view, an occurrence that was fast growing into a typical response - an event of which Tommen was growing tired. Age, power (or lack thereof) and a horrible weakness for the robust wines Margaery brought with her from Highgarden had made Cersei slow, but twice as vicious; her suffering at the hands of the Sept after Joffrey died left her half-mad, with a deep-seated bitterness that seemed to take hold in her very bone and soul. She was heavier than she had been, her skin seemed to sag on her body, and the rings around her eyes said she was tired - of what, Tommen couldn't say, but he suspected the years of being at loggerheads with Tyrion had taken their toll.

"I'm curious, are you angry that I didn't consult you or that you didn't think of it first?" Tyrion asked, his annoyance apparent. Cersei scoffed into her goblet.

"That is preposterous. This has nothing to do with _me_-"

"How right you are, sweet sister! This has _absolutely_ nothing to do with you, because it is the King's final decision, is it not?" Tyrion said, his voice raised but not quite shouting. Cersei whirled to stare at her son, indignation plain on her face.

"You knew about this?" she asked, incredulous. Tommen wanted, in that moment, to be anywhere and anyone else in the seven kingdoms. His mother's unwavering stare felt like a spotlight shining mercilessly on his every shortcoming, his every failure, no matter how small. She had the look of someone betrayed; Tommen thought vaguely how it reminded him of the way Joffrey had looked moments before he died. He chanced a glance at his uncle, who only raised an eyebrow.

"I approved it, yes." Cersei turned away, disgusted, and flung her goblet at a wall. Tommen floundered for a moment. "Westeros will not survive another Stark-Lannister war and if handing over Riverrun prevents it then we owe it to the people to at least try." He could not look his mother in the eye. Her mouth opened and closed, over and over again; _like a fish_, Tommen thought cruelly.

Their eyes met and of what passed between them Tommen couldn't truly make sense. He had always felt that their relationship had been one of a scale, trying to keep the other from tipping the balance, but now he wasn't so sure. She had always said that anyone who wasn't them was the enemy, but what about the enemies in your own house? Her eyes turned hard, her mouth set in a determined line, and she seemed to decide something.

"Fine. I see you've made your choice." She started to storm out, but then stopped short of his shoulder. "I'm disappointed in you, Tommen. Joffrey may have been a monster, but he was never a coward." When she left the room, a cold chill went through the room, though it was not unwelcome. Tommen let out a long breath and sank into a chair. They were in the hall where they held the small council, a long table in the centre ringed by ornate, expensive chairs. Tyrion was sat farthest away from the door, facing Tommen.

"That went well." Tyrion smiled but there was no mirth in it. He took a long draught from his goblet.

"We'll agree to disagree then," Tommen replied.

"Handing over Riverrun is a smart choice. Bran Stark and my estranged lady wife," he spat the word but judging by the way his eyes drifted to the door, Tommen supposed that Tyrion's disdain was entirely meant for Cersei rather than Sansa, "are placated for now, and we'll keep that Faceless bitch off our doorstep another day." Tyrion raised his goblet to Tommen in faux toast. Tommen chuckled.

"What now? What of the dragons across the Narrow Sea?" Tommen asked. Tyrion considered it for a few moments.

"There have been no reports since her fleet was swallowed by the Braavosi. You should send a raven, thank Lady Stark for the kindness, although I don't doubt she'll send it back headless." He stood, rubbing his thighs with a small hand, trying to work out the aches. "So that, at least, allows us a few more years' peace. What of Margaery?"

Tommen blew out a breath. "The Maester is starting to think it's impossible." He paused. "I'm starting to think it impossible."

"It'll happen, Tommen," Tyrion said gently, shuffling over to his nephew. He placed a hand on Tommen's broad shoulder, his eyes kind and well meaning. "It will happen and if it doesn't," he paused as a wicked smirk came across his mouth, "then I'm sure Myrcella wouldn't mind helping you a jot!" Had it been anyone else who made the joke, Tommen would have had them flayed alive, but his uncle had a way of softening things, making them easier to handle with a joke or a smile, and for that he was eternally grateful. Sometimes, in his more private moments, Tommen couldn't help but think that perhaps his mother had chosen the wrong brother.

He slapped his uncle on the shoulder and bid him goodnight, departing for the Holdfast. It was late - far too late for such heavy conversation - but there was no calm in the air, only a deep chill that made him shiver. If there was one thing he could say about the Northerners it was that they held their winter like no other.

His hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, he wondered what it would have been like to grow up in the shadow of Winterfell, dressed in furs and thick boots instead of silk and leather. Would he be stronger, harder, less like gold and more like iron? Would he be a Stannis instead of the Renly his mother dismissed him as? But then, he remembered, fate had not been kind to those who called Winterfell home.

A dead father, an undead mother, a thousand dead countrymen, and with very little to show for it, the Stark children had bore the brunt of unfortunate circumstance. He once made the catastrophic mistake of suggesting as much to his mother. Do not confuse coincidence with fate, she had told him. He dismissed the words as soon as he heard them; it suggested that there was no great tragedy in what had befallen the Starks, to which Tommen could not agree. There would be no songs of their lives, or at least not one that didn't end with everyone in tears. But they bore their burden with a grace Tommen didn't believe the Lannister's could have managed. They were loyal too; Tommen could not imagine Joffrey or Myrcella striking down a Targaryen fleet in Tommen's name. When Daenarys made a vague threat to take the North from Bran Stark and the South from Tommen, Arya had risen from the shadows and drowned her with a speed even the Braavosi were impressed with. You could see the fires on the ocean from Dragonstone, Tommen remembered.

He was still in a dream about the Northern children when he arrived at the Holdfast, so he was wholly unprepared for what he met.

On the edge of the bed, naked under a lace slip, sat a cross-legged Cersei, wine goblet in hand. Tommen froze. What in the seven hells was happening? Had he entered the wrong chamber in his dreaming? Had he stepped through some mirror where the world was not itself? Had a vengeful Maester poisoned him? He stumbled over himself in his hurry to leave, only to have the door shut before he could get through it. He was still against the door, his forehead resting on the wood, when he felt Cersei press herself into his back. His brain shut off, terror creeping up his spine to the lump in his throat.

"Do you have any idea what I've done to keep you on this throne?" she said venomously into his ear. Her voice was black but brittle, a soft malice oozing from every syllable. "Do you have any idea the humiliation I've had to endure for you? For this family?" He tried to push her off but she was surprisingly strong for her age and gender, forcing him back into the door with a forearm against his neck. Then her mouth was on his ear, pushing hard against the side of his head as she spoke.

"I've been beaten, raped, fucked; I've been married off and married again, I've been marched through the streets, I've been shaved and debased. I've been denounced by the family I once had, by the Sept I once prayed at, by the people I once ruled. But I will not," she said, slapping her palm against the wood above his head, "be ignored and dismissed by my own son. Do you understand me? You will never disobey me again; you are never to go behind my back again, you will always come to me first! Do not ever forget that while you may be the king, I am the Queen and there is nothing you can do about it. Do you understand me? Am I as transparent as the lace I'm wearing, Tommen?" Too shocked to do much else, he nodded dumbly against the door.

She smiled softly against his cheek and whispered, "You always did look like Jamie." She then flung him out of the way and disappeared into the night, leaving a mortified Tommen behind.


	5. Sansa

A/N - SANSA CHAPTER. I know you want it :P Sorry things are moving a bit slow at the moment, I'm just trying to set up stuff, and give you an idea of the characters as I seem them before shit goes down. It's important you see the motivations behind certain actions that happen later on in the story - cause trust some shit goes down. So here is chapter 5! Also, I wanted to address some things: Daenarys Targaryen IS dead in this fic, ain't no two ways about it, but Arya's actions and why she did it are talked about and explained in a later chapter - as I've written it right now, it's about chapter 21 (if everything goes according to plan that is). So yeah, no Daenarys (cause I'm not intelligent enough to work out a separate story line for her; this story is entirely centered around the Starks and how I see a rise to true power for them). Also, I wanted to say what my process was and how I upload chapters: For this story, as I fully intend to finish it and not leave it a terminal WIP, I will write a chapter ahead and then upload it once the next chapter is done. For example, I'm uploading chapter 5 now, but I won't upload chapter 6 until I've finished writing chapter 7. That way, I'll always have something for you guys to read next. Phew! That was a long ass AN, so without further ado: Sansa. (PS. You get to see Arya next chapter!)

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If there was one thing Sansa knew it was that the Lannisters did nothing without cause, so when the drawbridge came down and her retinue gathered around her, she took pause and eyed the lion guard suspiciously. This would mean freedom; Cersei's grip could not choke her in Riverrun, not while Edmure still named her his blood and certainly not once the Kingslayer left. The Queen would not have forgiven Jamie's betrayal, though whether it was his dismissal of her plight so many years ago or his taking up with the Warrior Maiden of Tarth, Sansa couldn't say.

She couldn't really see either one of them agreeing to this, nor Tommen deciding on his own; no, she thought, my release is the Imp's doing, surely.

Sansa remembered that Tyrion had been kind to her when they first married, that he had not forced himself upon her as she had expected, but rather had agreed to wait until she was ready to accept him. He had shielded her from Joffrey's viciousness when the two were still betrothed, a kindness Sansa had never repaid to him. Not that she would now, but still it sat in the back of her mind. Perhaps, when the time came (and Sansa was sure it would come soon), she would spare Tyrion, or at least offer him a fair trial. If a Lannister can pay his debts, the Starks could too. And so it was with great trepidation, and not without the smallest of pushes from Petyr, that she bid the Vale goodbye, galloping off in a steady march towards the Trident and the Tully lands.

Her entourage consisted of twenty capable men, and three handmaidens, who were all comfortably seated atop the sturdiest steeds in the Eyrie, while a pony dragged a small wheelhouse filled with food, medicines and clothing behind them. They rode quickly, faster than Sansa had ever gone, a river of gold and blue and grey, with bright banners emblazoned with fish and direwolves over their heads, whipping back and forth in the wind. At this pace, we'll be there in little more than two days, Sansa thought. This is real, I really am going home: well, as close to home as I can get.

When finally they slowed, night creeping up on them, one of the heavier knights came up beside her. "It's a beautiful country, is it not my lady?" he said politely. Sansa looked at him. He was dressed in gilded armour, a lion roaring proudly on his chest, with a two black short swords strapped to his back and a gold cloak fastened across his shoulders. Bodily, he was Ser Meryn come again, but his face was soft and honest, his mouth and eyes proclaiming no devil. Meryn had been sly and cruel, but they were not claims one could lay at this knight's feet.

"It is. Do you know the Trident well?" she asked. He shook his head, seeming somewhat sullen about the admission.

"No. I was born in the Stormlands, the second son to Gulian Swann," he said. There was pride in his voice and something else Sansa couldn't pinpoint, sadness perhaps.

Surprised, she asked "You're Ser Balon?" He nodded again. "Are the Stormlands so different?" While it was not a particularly funny question, he threw his head back and laughed, his booming chuckle echoing off the hills around them. When his guffawing died down, he smiled at her kindly.

"Aye, m'lady. The Riverlands are all hills and streams, but the Stormlands are hard rock, salt and rain. The woods are nice though, and when the sun lights up the coast, you'd be hard pressed to find a prettier sight." He smiled again, but this time it was sad, the sting of nostalgia clinging to it like hook leaves on cotton. "I used to ride from Stonehelm to Mistwood and back in a day, never stopping and never slowing. The Rainwood, the Kingswood, the stony shores… Those were the lands my father brought me up on. Rock and rain." He glanced at her and a queer, wicked smile came across his face. "Although, the weather is a vicious bastard." And Sansa couldn't help but laugh.

They chatted amiably as they trotted on, and Sansa decided that she liked Balon Swann, though perhaps not enough to forget the lion on his chest. None of the other knights spoke to her, ignoring her utterly until they couldn't much longer. Out of necessity - as she was a lady and highborn besides - they paused to ask if she would like to stop or if she needed anything. She politely declined, with all the graces of a lady, and said she wanted to go as far as they could manage. In truth, she wanted as far away from the Eyrie as possible: It was capture, where Riverrun was freedom. And the closer to freedom, the better.

They were well into the eighth hour of their journey, her eyes red and rubbed raw from the wind, when Sansa saw them: Three great shadows of men on horses on the horizon, galloping towards them at an alarming speed. In an instant, Sansa panicked. It's the Lannisters. They've changed their minds; they've come to take me back to the Sky Cells, I know it. I won't let them take me, she thought, _I won't, I won't, I won't._

As the shadows grew closer, just barely lit from behind, Sansa could make out three separate forms: two small, slight men with bows dressed in leather on ponies, and between them a tall, broad dark haired man in steel armour astride a sheer black destrier. He looked more of a knight than Ser Balon, his eyes dark, his hands calloused and scarred, and his sword as broad and large as any Sansa had seen. This is how I imagined Robert Baratheon when father spoke of the Trident, she thought, that sword could be a hammer.

Ser Balon trotted in front of her, one hand on his own blade, and when they stopped in their path he shouted, "You're interfering with official Royal business - state yourselves!" All pleasantness was gone from his voice; for the first time Sansa felt as if she was seeing the reason Balon was knighted in the first place.

From under the great helmet he wore, the dark man pinned Balon with an even stare, as if considering him, but he seemed to find the Lannister knight wanting. He instead turned his gaze on Sansa. "You aren't the Queen. And you aren't the princess. Just how royal can you be?" His voice was gruff and hard, as if it had gone unused for far too long.

"Who I am is no concern of yours, just as who you are does not concern me," she replied steadily. Balon turned to stare at her. Good, it's about time someone started to fear me. For some reason, she wanted the dark man to fear her too. She wanted him to cower in terror at the power she wielded - was this how Joffrey had felt? She disliked the feeling greatly. "However, those in the company of highborn ladies deserve to know so: I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Lady and Keeper of Riverrun."

"Stark?" the dark man asked. She nodded and something in his face changed. He turned to the men on either side of him and jerked his head in the direction they had come. The two frowned but said nothing, instead turning and galloping off, obeying whatever order he'd given. His eyes came back to Sansa and he removed his giant horned helmet. He was not uneasy to look at, his jaw and cheekbones shaped into what amounted to handsomeness, and his eyes held none of the animosity they had moments ago. "They," he gestured to her entourage, "can call me The Bull. You," his hard face softened into a smile, "can call me Gendry. I am a knight of the Brotherhood Without Banners, sworn to no lord and no kingdom. If it would please you, I would care to join your escort. No doubt a bull is a sight more welcome than a lion."

He's not wrong, she thought, however she could not help but be astounded. She had heard of the Brotherhood before, that they were lead by a vengeful corpse with a thirst for Frey blood, that they hung every man they came across, that they were murderers, rapers and pillagers, that they did not know the meaning of the word honour. But the man in front of her seemed none of that - then again neither had Joff, who in the end was the worst of them all.

"The Brotherhood holds fealty to no man. Why help me?" Her horse shuffled, seeming to sense her discomfort under The Bull's stoic gaze. He seemed to seriously consider her question, and his answer was gentle. "Your father saved my life as a boy. Now I can't repay the favour, but I'd like to repay the debt. If you'll have me, of course." He bowed his head slightly and Sansa decided that she rather liked The Bull.


	6. Saran

A/N - It's an Arya chapter! Yay! Although, not told from Arya's perspective. I'm making the deliberate choice NOT to have Arya as a POV character, because I don't think anyone really knows what Arya's thinking most of the time, so there is no reason you should! You're a Bran! And Arya is freaking Arya. So yeah, here's a character I made up who has absolutely no bearing on the story except that he's a looking glass into Arya's actions. He's as close as you get. Enjoy! :) x (Also, I've encountered a problem with the chapter naming system here on FF. It won't let me have chapters with the same title, which obviously creates a problem when I'm using the characters names ala Bran, Rickon, Bran, Sansa, Bran, etc etc etc. SO from now on I'm being forced to have it as Bran, Rickon, Bran II, Rickon II, Sansa III etc etc etc. Sorry if that looks tacky or causes a distraction. It pisses me off too.)

**EDIT: I edited this chapter and improved it a bit. I apologise for the inconvenience. And if it isn't clear, Saran is the First Sword of Braavos and a character I made up.**

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Saran stood in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows, watching the duel in front of him play out. It wasn't a real duel; there were no actual swords involved (it would have been over much quicker had there been) only words and posturing. And all with a great deal of eye rolling and hand gestures. A representative from the Iron Bank - Russo Daquen, a loud mouthed fat man with a penchant for whores and drink - had spilled a few choice secrets to the king about a restriction the Sealord had set on monies lent to the crown. As the First Sword of Braavos, Saran had been ordered to take care of the problem. He had. Now two equally fat and self-important justiciars were here to lodge a complaint, much to the Sealord's consternation.

"You can't go around killing our officials!" The fatter of the two protested, gesturing wildly to such a degree that Saran had to stifle a snigger. The Sealord rolled her eyes. She was sat at the end of the room on a wicker throne at the top of ten small steps, her legs lackadaisically thrown across one side of the chair and her back propped up against the opposite rest, picking her nails with the tip of a curved dagger. It was not particularly ornate, but the pommel was carved out to look like an elongated wolf, it's jaws wide and fierce; the blade was Valaryian steel that glowed blue in the moonlight, and in the sunlight looked black as coal, with red ripples running through it. She had named it Nymeria.

"And are you going to stop me?" she asked, apathetic. Saran shifted from his position against the wall. The two bankers were slightly stunned, unused to being spoken down to, and Saran had to remind himself just how much power these two horse arses held.

Enraged, the thinner spat, "How dare you threaten us!" Nymeria flashed, sunlight bouncing off it, as she jerked her gaze upwards to meet them, her hand tightening around the knife proper.

"I was merely asking a question. But if you need a demonstration…" she paused and, without looking away, barked, "Saran." Dutifully, he pushed himself toward her, taking a knee at her feet with his head bowed. "Kill them if they move." The two bankers froze as Saran stood straight and drew his sword, eyeing them evilly. "_That_ was a threat. I can see how you would be confused." Nymeria's edge returned to her nails.

Silently, they fumed. "The Iron Bank will have its due!" The fat one said, trying his best to sound far braver than he actually was. They have heart, Saran thought, though whether it is brave or stupid, I don't know.

The Sealord looked the man dead in the eye and said clearly, "And I'm sure it will, but not today." Sensing the conversation was over, the two swished out of the room, followed quickly by the guards posted alongside the doors, leaving Saran and the Sealord alone.

In the quiet that came after, Saran could hear the crowds outside, passing below the windows of the tower, as they moved through the alleys and along the canals. There were merchants shouting their best prices, customers heckling traders that they thought were cheap or crooked, bravos fighting each other in lively displays of obnoxiousness. It was not an unwelcome sort of noise, but it was hectic and messy. Saran had no patience for this Braavos, because to him the city was built for hiding, not for overt displays of showy swordsmanship. Leave that to the stags and the lions.

He loved the parts of the city that were clothed in whispers, dark shadows and high corners; he loved the aqueducts where dirty children played and took notice of what important officials visited which whore houses; he loved the island of gods; and he loved the way the river went from green to grey in the right sunlight; he loved the Titan that would always make him think of home. Most of all, he loved the Sealord's statue in the center of the pavilion, a tall stone female figure with a faceless head, engraved with the Braavosi symbol for love and protection.

"I thought I told you to kill them if they moved," she said, her voice low and rough. There was nothing of the uninterested, borderline arrogant attitude in her now, only a blank slate with a hint of bare exhaustion. She moved to sit upright, her feet planted on the floor. It occurred to him then that she was beautiful. He had never thought about it before, preferring dark skinned women of Essos to the fair Westerosi women, but her sharp features and hard grey eyes were not displeasing, and they were of age with one another. His mother had been a Westerosi woman from somewhere in the south, his father had told him; a cruel place with few laws, full of flayed men and mountains.

"Would you like me to follow them, my Lord?" he said. There was pause as her eyes narrowed and stared at the closed double doors. A minute went by, then three, when finally she shook her head. He felt something amiss, like there was something he wasn't quite seeing, so he asked, "Forgive me, my Lord, but is something wrong?" She looked at him then, appearing for all the world as if she was bearing a burden heavier than the night itself.

"Have you ever risen one morning and felt like something had changed, was different than it was the night before?" she asked seriously. He heard the question, but he didn't think he understood it. You look but you do not see.

"Different?"

"In the air, in your bones - like there's a shadow on your back and every time you turn to look, you only catch a glimpse in the corner of your eye before it's gone." She sounded very far away, her eyes unfocused. Slowly, in tiny circles, she rubbed her thumb around one of the teeth on Nymeria's wolf. Saran frowned.

"A praying man might call that a warning," he replied softly, trying to make sense of what she had said. If she had been his sister or his wife, he might have gone to her side, wrapped his arms around her, kissed away her fears and sorrows. But this was the Sealord of Braavos, Arya Stark of Winterfell, Lady Faceless, Cat of the Canals - there would be no comfort for her troubles.

Clutching Nymeria with white knuckles, she looked up at him, her face solemn, "And a dying man?"

"Are you dying, my Lord?" Saran wondered aloud. This must have been the wrong thing to say, because in an instant, she had schooled her features into a mask and rose from the throne, removing the gold and bone circlet from her head, tossing it onto the throne. _Had_ he said the wrong thing, or was it simply too close to the truth?

She sheathed Nymeria in a scabbard strapped to her lower back and walked to the door, wrenching one of them open. Cocking her head in his direction, just barely looking over her shoulder, she spoke softly. "We're all dying, Saran. Some just quicker than others." And with that, she was gone.


	7. Rickon II

A/N - So, yeah here's an update. I'm still working on Chapter 8, so don't get you're hopes up for a quick update after this, cause I'm back at work now and busier than ever so... yeah. A couple things though: To the Anon entitled Ramsey's Son, I just want to point out that in the description it clearly says that this is a mixture of book canon, head canon and tv canon. I haven't read all the books, and like I said in the previous author's note, I genuinely can't think up a way to include Dany and do her justice at the same time. I'm just not smart enough, so I'm playing to my strengths here. If that bothers you, or if you deem that an unfair approach to these characters, then I'm afraid you're just going to have to live with, cause I can't say I'm sorry for something I don't really deem an offence. This story is entirely meant to revolve around the Starks and how I see them in an slightly AU setting and how they rise to power. If I have omitted something, it will either be because I have to for the sake of the characters as it is (Dany and her arc and Arya's development), or it's because I don't know about it (pretty much everything you've asked about in your review; side note, I'd appreciate it if you logged in or sent me a PM so I can answer you privately and not in an absurdly long AN) or it's because it's necessary for the story to continue the way I see it (sacrifices must be made, ie Tyrion being the Hand of the King, Tywin's murder notwithstanding). Please note, there are certain characters that won't be getting POV chapters who did in the books: Samwell, Theon (obvs), Dany, Davos, Tyrion, etc etc. The ONLY POV characters are Sansa, Rickon, Bran, Tommen, Saran and two others who I won't reveal yet because I want to surprise you guys.

So sorry about that ridiculously long note, hope it doesn't put you off. Here, have some violence!

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"What is it y'call a flock of crows?" Osha kicked at the scarlet snow, then waved her torch from side to side so as to cast the light as far as possible over the clearing. Rickon drew his sword as he counted the bodies. There were seven in total, all dressed in black fur and thick wool, with aged swords and broken axes: there could be no doubt that the dead men were Watchmen. Three were missing heads; two were bloodless by the looks of their sagging skin and hollow eye sockets; one was nothing more than a frozen torso; and the last one Rickon couldn't rightly say, it being too far away, half hanging over the opposite banking. There was a dark gouge in the snow from where the man had obviously tried to crawl away_. From what_, Rickon wondered.

"A murder," he replied, speaking more to himself than Osha. Warily, he started to walk the tree line, his own torch and sword pointed out in front of him. Whatever he had felt in the air when they left the Frostfangs had tripled its presence in the wild wood, so much so that Rickon swore he could almost taste it. On the tip of his tongue it sat, not heavy enough for him to tell what it was, but enough for him to guess. It was like a nervous tension, amounting to something close to fear, and it was unwelcomingly bitter.

What little natural light they'd had faded and gave way wholly to the darkness, but there seemed an edge to it. It was something sinister that whipped at his clothes and threatened his flames. It was a whisper was on the wind, carried by the trees that surrounded them, by the spontaneous snow flurries that spun around them, by their own steaming breath. Rickon loved it not, as did, he suspected the rest of the wildlings, Osha most of all. She was still fidgeting on the banking. Rickon was halfway around the clearing now, almost to the man he hadn't been able to see before.

He felt like someone was watching him; though to be fair, he'd felt like that all day.

Robb had snuck him into the kitchens once, back before Rickon could even sit a horse without his father behind him. They had crept in through the back where Gage, the old cook, had kept all the sweets meant for after dinner, and Robb had stuffed as many as he could fit into his and Rickon's pockets while Rickon played lookout. The whole time, Rickon felt like even the bricks and the paintings were watching, frowning and ready to run off and tell their mother. He felt like that, but there was no excitement in it and now there were much worse things to fear.

Off in the distance, a wolf howled. It was loud though, too loud in the tight clearing, and Rickon shivered_. Let it be Shaggy. Let it be Shaggy._

Rickon saw movement out the corner of his eye, and for half a second he thought it was Osha. It was not.

He meant to yell, to call out in warning, but the words died in his throat as something big and beastly tackled him to the ground. Snow filled his ears and nose as he landed face down; his sword went flying, clattering into a tree and landing with a wet thump in the snow. And the thing that had flung itself at him sunk its huge, heavy jaws around his shoulder and tugged.

Rickon had experienced pain before. He was no stranger to a burning poker, used to cauterize a wound and seal it off once the Maester had done all he could. He had felt the sting of the cold, having lost a toe or three to frostbite when winter first fell upon them. He could recall in perfect detail the way a well-placed lance could shred through skin and bone like a knife through a girls doll. But as the beast ripped the flesh from his body, he screamed so loudly that he felt something in his throat pop. The pain was fierce. Blood welled in his mouth, and he spat it out as best he could, most of it spattering on his chin and neck, dribbling down the side of his face. The beast snarled, its head whipping from side to side as it chewed on the sizeable hunk of Rickon between its teeth. Rickon struggled to keep his eyes open, everything in his body fighting for sleep. In a mammoth effort worthy of knighthood, he forced his eyes open wide and stared at the beast that mauled him.

It was a wolf, half the size of Shaggydog, who was matched with garron horses, but large for its species. It was a vicious, mean looking thing with one blind eye and a missing ear. It was completely black. In the dark, all Rickon could see were two bright pinpricks, one white and one ice blue. Ice. My father's sword. The King's Justice. Valyrian steel. Fear cuts deeper than swords, Arya had said in a letter to him once. She isn't wrong.

In his panicked state, Rickon had forgot about Osha, so when she skewered the wolf into the ground with Rickon's own sword, he jumped, trying his hardest to crawl away and back into the clearing. As he did, he left his own red gorge in the snow.

Osha twisted the blade again, then pulled it free with a sickly squelch. She cast a disgusted, sorry look at what was left of Rickon's shoulder, and came over to him, discarding his sword in the snow.

"You all right?" she asked. Despite his current state and the fact that she had practically raised him, he couldn't help but want to kiss her. He didn't, but he still wanted to.

Instead, he shot her a withering glance and said, "Peachy." She frowned.

"No need to be rude. Y'think y'can walk?" Gently, she tucked her hands under his arms and helped him onto his feet. He nodded tightly, grimacing at the pain. He felt faint; _I've lost too much blood_. Osha let him lean against a dying ironwood as she scooped up his sword and tucked it into her waistband. Coming over to him again, she tucked herself under his good arm and tugged, taking his weight as they shuffled out of the clearing, leaving the dead wolf and watching whispers behind them.

It was an hour before they made it back to their camp, but by that time Rickon was so delirious, he wouldn't have known it. Osha set him down as Grumm pulled him onto one of the fallen weirwoods they'd been using as a bed. His blood dripped into the eye sockets, looking like ugly, red tears. For a moment there was nothing but stunned silence. Rickon was a staple in their lives, had fought for them for so long and had helped them so much, it was strange to think they might have to bid him goodbye. But then it passed, and everyone set about gathering what was needed. Half awake and half-mad with pain, Rickon tried to follow the conversations they had above him.

"The Wall," someone was saying. "Let's get him to the wall. They'll have someone, a maester, or a healer - they'll have someone who can help." Whoever it was sounded desperate and angry. Rickon's head felt thick, his heart felt heavy and his blood was black in his body. There was oil under his skin, nasty, viscous oil that pooled in his lungs and filled up his mouth. It leaked from him, infecting the very air with its sickness.

"We can't," said someone else. "The Wall is still three days away, he'll never make it in time." This person said something else, but Rickon was too far away to hear it. He was sinking, sinking, sinking, into blackness where he heard nothing and no one.

There was no wind here; there were no walls and no woods; there were no men and no beasts. Only blackness. And Rickon.


End file.
